


The Sound of Silence, at Last

by Anonymous



Series: Malfunctioning Memories Make for New Friends [1]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), SMPLive, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: But mostly angst, Canon Temporary Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Gen, GhostSchlatt - Freeform, Ghostbur, More fluff in chapter 2, Respawns are a Thing, Schlatt remembers even less, Wilbur remembers very little as a ghost, but like ghosts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27674977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Schlatt always remembers and Wilbur always forgets, like the sickening pull of a messed up compass. Schlatt was so tired of remembering.OrSome ghosts, like Ghostbur, had selections of memories and blank spots in the gaps.When he pulled his hands — greyscale and pale — from the collar of his blue sweater, he realized he had nothing but blanks.
Relationships: Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot, No Romantic Relationship(s), No romance or you shall perish by the bottle
Series: Malfunctioning Memories Make for New Friends [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2023072
Comments: 95
Kudos: 538
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT; I had to repost this work, because something with it kept glitching and showing up as completely blank on my end. Luckily I had the draft saved in docs and I don’t believe much was lost editing wise, but man. That was stressful. AO3, please have mercy on me.
> 
> [Original Note:]
> 
> Yet another currently canon complaint almost-AU, spawned from my drafts! I've had this one rolling around in my docs for a while, and I finally managed to polish it up.
> 
> I really enjoy writing these standalone oneshots, if I'm honest. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely adore working on "What World Have We Inherited", but these are a fun break now and then. This also served as a sort of character study for canon Schlatt, since it's my interpretation of his death scene.
> 
> As always my dear readers, comments, kudos, and feedback of any kind empower my tired soul. Enjoy some angst, with a side of bittersweet fluff.

\-----

$

\-----

Coming on this server was absolutely the worst idea Schlatt ever had. And that was saying something, because even now, his choices were pretty shit. 

His head was pulsing with pain, almost like the familiar agony that came with every morning hangover. Only this time he was still drunk, still unsteady as he leant against the remains of a hidden alcove. Bottles littered the floor, empty and forgotten as he settled between them like a weary bird. He was still holding one of them, still clutched a half full glass cage that rattled with his shaking hands. 

He couldn't see straight. The room kept swimming in a familiar haze of old warmth, and he tried to sink into it the way he always had. He tried to tilt back his head and be swallowed up by the waves, tried to let the soothing fuzz of the alcohol round off his sharp edges, tried to let it soothe him to the closest thing he got to a restful sleep. 

It didn't work. He opened his eyes and the world was just as blurry, just as shaky. He blinked, and the light was suddenly blocked by a figure. He squinted. 

_Wilbur._

He wasn't wearing any armour, that was the only way Schlatt could tell him apart, blurry and buzzing and near faded. He forced his eyes to focus, squinted with as much energy as he could collect through his open palms. The rest of them — and oh, were there a lot of them — were all clad in glittering armour that made his head spin, and his lips peeled back into a sickly snark when they locked on a bright blue tracksuit, hidden under a chestplate. Beside Quackity, Tubbo peered down at him, perched atop the roof where Schlatt couldn't see him. Fundy was the final straw, a smear of orange and black that swept by in the sun. 

_Fucking traitors, the lot of them._ He wasn't angry. He was just so fucking tired. But they wanted a villain, they wanted their vision, and Schlatt would give it to them right up until they didn't need him anymore. Right up until they saw the emptiness that burned like embers behind Wilbur's eyes, caged up and gnawing at the bars. He wondered how much longer they all had — how much longer their happily ever after would last, once he was dead. 

"Is this a surprise birthday party?" He asked, voice dripping with slurred sarcasm. He saw someone shift uncomfortably from the corner of his vision, watched as they pulled at a blood-red bandana and fiddled with a crossbow. 

He remembered when he met Tommy the first time he'd logged on to the god forsaken server. He'd been brighter then, albeit muddled by the beginnings of a war he hadn't been prepared for. By that point the kid had already racked up a hell of a death count, and Schlatt distinctly remembered wondering how he could smile so brightly having seen the respawn realm so many times. (Not that he was one to judge — he'd done worse shit for less by the time he was the kid's age, he just hadn't had the energy to keep his grip on his joy. Not without the steel arms of alcohol wrapped around his ribcage, pulling him back from the abyss.) The kid had been funny. Starry eyed and bright and burning with a determination that had almost made Schlatt want to live up to the vision, a determination that had shoved Schlatt back into his played out role with new enthusiasm. The usual exhaustion didn't creep up like it should have, and he'd been exactly who Tommy idolized for nearly an entire day. He even built an echo of the infamous "cuck shed" just to see him smile. 

Tommy was a good kid. Overzealous, too eager and far too reckless, but he was good. Good in a way Schlatt never was. He never forgave Tommy for that, even when he liked him, and if that didn't describe his fucked up brain nothing did. Maybe if he hadn't drunk so much, he'd be able to express that. 

_Speaking of being drunk..._

He tilted his head back and chugged down a gulp that didn't burn — hadn't for years — and thumped his head against the wood of the walls with a wry smile he didn't feel. He wiped the back of his hand against his mouth, smeared residual drips against his skin. It chilled him, with the little breeze that made it through the crowd of his _adoring_ fans. He saw how Tommy's hands steadied a little around the handle of his weapon, and his smile grew a little wider. Grew a little sharper right at the edges, stuffed with energy he didn't possess. He didn't remember the last time he'd meant it. 

_Good,_ he thought quietly, muted, _have your fucking fun now, while it lasts._

They were all looking at him. Some more hatefully than others, but they were all looking at him, so he performed. He performed and he talked and he ranted, and that was all he'd ever done. He'd been good at it for as long as he could remember, and it was all he had now, alone and abandoned on the floor. He wondered if this was what Wilbur wanted, in all his dramatics and endless babble. 

He remembered meeting Wilbur, far before any of this shit came to chase him to his grave. He remembered speaking to him amidst the halls of open roads and expansive towers, built far fucking better than the shoddy work of laborious children, primed and picked for the war. He remembered standing up on a stage and reading half a cue card, and he remembered getting a better laugh from it than he'd ever have gotten with the full material. Schlatt remembered the way water rose from the depths of hell itself, an echo of the lava that would follow it, and an echo still of the TNT that brought it all full circle. 

Wilbur had been different, a long time ago. Different even from what everyone on this god forsaken server remembered. He was pretty sure only Technoblade knew about that Wilbur though, the Wilbur with a vibrant yellow sweater and an old song about squids. Wilbur had been good once too, bright and eager with a baby-face that lent humor to his dry sardonic style. They'd been good partners-in-crime, and the bit had come easier to him then. The jokes rolled off his tongue and the jabs came with an underlying understanding of their camaraderie, and it had been the closest Schlatt had ever been to being _good,_ even as the sky exploded above their heads or the ground vanished beneath their feet. 

Wilbur had apparently forgotten all about that when he pulled Schlatt back into the country he was so proud of. He'd been power hungry and quiet, used children in wars that Technoblade could have won. Schlatt wasn't much better, but he never claimed to be. _Wilbur_ was the good half — the half with reasoning, with balance, he was the one who reeled them back in. He'd thrown all of that away, reaching and grasping for a power Schlatt knew all too well. 

Schlatt knew it was too late to save him. Schlatt had never been good at that shit anyway, so he didn't even try. He gave him a shot, instead. He threw them out of the hill Wilbur had been so determined to die on and he waited, wondered if the Wilbur he knew would resurface from the ashes. 

They all thought he was conniving, but he wasn't. He'd just been lucky in all the ways that didn't matter, all the ways that lead to the bottle instead. If he was conniving — hell, if he'd even been smart — he wouldn't be where he was, a crumpled mess with a tangled tie, the target of only blades and arrows and hatred. 

He stared up at the crowd of his enemies. His eyes focused on a reluctant looking Fundy, and his chest ached right behind his ribs. He shouted at him on instinct. Grabbed fistfulls of the fox's shirt and spat in his face, threw punches he knew didn't do enough damage to matter. It didn't matter to him either; he sparsely even felt the impact against his bruised knuckles. He spat pathetic insults without bite, and oh, how far he'd fallen. He was too drunk for this, too weary to think of anything better than _"be a man"_ and some bullshit about the lost opportunity to lift weights. The irony of it stung like a slap to his face — if anyone in the room was pathetic, if anyone was a wreck, it certainly wasn't Fundy, who looked at him with more pity than Schlatt knew he deserved. Who gently pushed Schlatt's weak hands from his shirt, expression twisted into mourning for a man not even Schlatt was certain he'd ever known. It certainly wasn't anyone wearing full netherite armour, branded on the chestplate with Technoblade's signature mark.

He wondered if they saw the way Techno's eyes shifted. The displeased curve of his lips or the clench of his fist around the hilt of his drawn sword. Technoblade lived for blood, and he lived for war. He fought for the underdogs for a reason — if Wilbur wasn't the end of them, Schlatt knew Technoblade would be. Wilbur knew it too. He saw the way Wilbur's eyes kept flickering between him and Techno, between a ram and a pig who used to be his old friends. Wilbur had forgotten all about that, it seemed. Wilbur always fucking forgot, and Schlatt was always stuck with the burden of the memory. He could never manage to forget a single detail, no matter how many bottles he tried to drown the film in. No matter how many rancid inhales he took in from his cigars, no matter how many nights he spent buried in glass. Nobody ever listened to him either, never heeded the warnings of an old drunk who knew only how to play pretend. 

His grip tightened around the bottle. He took another swig. He stumbled over to Tommy, wondered if anyone saw the way Wilbur didn't move a muscle to stop him the way he would have before. He stumbled over and reached out, tugged the edge of Tommy's crossbow up to his chest with a grin that split his cheeks in half. It ached. 

"Do it," his visage taunted, nearly a drawl, "do it, I fucking dare you." 

Tommy's finger twitched on the trigger, but he didn't pull it. Schlatt wanted to impale himself, and he whirled around manically instead. He remembered the steps to this particular waltz, and god, he was so tired of remembering. He was so fucking tired of remembering, but hell, he'd give them one final shot. He locked his eyes onto Wilbur, watched as the hollow echo of an old friend looked back with a copy pasted smile. A part of him withered at that smile, withered and whispered it was his fault. The rest of him cackled in practiced echo, because of course it fucking was. But he hadn't set the fire, he'd only been the kindling. 

"If I die," he breathed with surprising clarity, "this country goes down with me." 

Tommy's expression tightened to rage, and Schlatt wanted to reach out and shake him like an old doll. To slap him and wake him up, because Schlatt wasn't the only bad guy anymore. He took another swig instead. 

"No, it doesn't," Tommy said, and Schlatt wanted to laugh, because the kid sounded fucking _sad,_ and that had been the first time Schlatt had ever told them the truth. He wanted to laugh and he wanted to yell, because the kid he'd met so many months ago was still buried in there, and the knowledge of it burned him in a way booze never could anymore. 

He didn't do either of those things. 

The pain of his chest intensified, suddenly. It grew and it grew and it suffocated him, and his eyes widened as an old smell drifted through the air on a gust of wind. An oven? Was Ted making banana bread again?

"Does anyone smell toast?" He murmured, as his empty bottle shattered against the ground. As the black spots in his vision grew, blotted out the faces of the people who wanted him to die so badly. 

It felt different, dying this time. More permanent. More slow. 

That was fine. 

Schlatt was so tired of respawning, anyway. 

\-----

$

.

.

.

?

\-----

He opened his eyes. Then he blinked, because that wasn't right. That wasn't… 

Was it? 

He furrowed his brow and squinted, tried to make out exactly what he was looking at. When he lifted up his hand to push back his hair and get a better look, he hit something hard. Horns. Long horns that curled around his ears, tangled up a bit of his hair at the base. A blue sweater and horns. He wondered vaguely what he must look like. 

Heavy blue sleeves pooled around his arms, and he had to tug at the collar of his sweater as he swept his gaze around the area. It didn't _look_ familiar, but it had to be, didn't it? He wouldn't have come here otherwise. In the distance, he could almost make out… a city? Was it a city? 

Where even was here? 

"Oh!" 

A voice broke the silence, and he turned on his heel quicker than he'd figured he could, which was strange, because he couldn't remember why he wouldn't be able to. Equally strangely, his oddly fancy shoes didn't make an indent in the grass. 

He turned, and he locked eyes with a strange new man, clad in a yellow sweater that matched his own. It was incredibly vibrant against his pale grey skin — in fact, it was vibrant to the point of making the rest of him look washed out. Not that he could complain, since the blue yarn of _his_ sweater made his grey hands look incredibly fragile. 

Even so, he waved back slowly when the other man approached with a gentle smile. The other man, he noticed, didn't leave footprints when he walked either. Maybe that was just how things worked. He was also incredibly tall, taller than _he_ was, and he wasn't sure how he knew that meant he was tall. For all he knew, he could just be short, but that didn't feel right either. He didn't really have much time to think about it. 

"You're like me!" The man in the yellow sweater chirped, voice oddly intonated and broken up at the edges, "that's interesting, because nobody else seems to be like me here. I think it's because I am dead. Are you dead?" 

Dead? 

He blinked for what felt like the millionth time, reached up and patted at his chest. He didn't _feel_ dead, but he couldn't deny that he felt a bit strange when he caught a glimpse of his grey skin. 

"... I have no idea," he said, shocked by the sound of his own voice. The other man didn't seem to mind, instead opting to stick out his hand. 

"Well then, hello fellow maybe-dead friend!" The other man said, smile so bright it nearly blinded him, "my name is Ghostbur! Well, it used to be Wilbur. But I don't like that name. That name is bad. It belonged to a bad man." 

_Wilbur._

Something in his chest ached, and he physically winced at the pain. He decided then and there that he didn't like that name either, so he crushed it into the mud. 

The other man — _Ghostbur,_ apparently — was looking at him expectantly. When he reached out and shook his hand, his face lit up. 

"You _are_ like me!" He cheered, then paused. "oh. Wait — no." 

His expression became very serious then, pulled down a bit too far in the corners. 

"I am very sorry to hear that you are dead," Ghostbur amended, and before he could tell him it was okay, that he hadn’t even been able to tell, Ghostbur was already talking again.

"But I am also very happy to have a friend like me. Everyone else is colorful, and alive, and not dead, like me. Which is okay, because apparently I was bad when I was alive. But I'm not anymore, so I'm better now! Anyway, what's your name?" 

Ghostbur dumped all that on him at once, and his head was still reeling from it when he processed the end of the sentence. 

What was his name? 

"..." 

He furrowed his brow, racked his brain. What _was_ his name? He had to have one, didn't he? Everyone had a name, he knew that much at least. But when he thought about it, he came up utterly blank. Oddly enough, he felt almost relieved by it, and he hadn't the faintest idea why. Eventually he shrugged, frowning. 

"You don't know?" Ghostbur said, tilting his head to the side. Then Ghostbur clapped his hands together with a bright smile. He always seemed to be smiling. 

"That is a-okay! I don't remember things sometimes either, and that's okay, because I don't think I want to remember those things. I did bad things, did I say that already? Do you think you did bad things?" 

Ghostbur liked to talk a lot. He shrugged again. He didn't really feel like talking. 

"Well, that's okay. We can be friends anyway, if you would like to be friends. Maybe we can go and find you a name!" 

Ghostbur smiled at him, and he took a moment to think about it. That didn't sound too bad. This time, he spoke. It felt like the sort of thing you were supposed to talk about. 

"Okay." 

Ghostbur beamed, and he smiled back. It felt a little weird, and he didn't know why. It was nice to have a friend, though. That he was sure of. So, they walked. He followed a mere step behind as Ghostbur babbled, nodded his head in lieu of verbal replies. 

"I have a wishing well!" Ghostbur hummed, "maybe we can go there and wish for a name for you. It’s a very nice wishing well, if I say so myself." 

He thought again, and the answer came easier this time. Ghostbur was still looking at him. It would be nice to have a name, probably. Something Ghostbur could call him, instead of "dead-friend". It seemed a little… morbid, even for an apparent ghost. 

He nodded, and he followed when Ghostbur changed directions, walked toward the city he'd seen before. He wondered if he'd meet new people there too, if they would be as strange as Ghostbur was. 

Then again, he didn't really know what made someone strange. He couldn't remember enough to tell. 

\-----

?

\-----


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a strange thing, having no memories. But it isn't as bad as he thought it would be — whoever he was, anyway.
> 
> Or
> 
> Ghostbur brings his new friend to a quiet L'Manburg, in hopes of finding a name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I was earnestly blown away by the overwhelming support for the last chapter of this story, haha. Thank you, my dear readers.
> 
> I fully intended to have the first part be a oneshot, but eh, why not make it two? It's a nice break from working on WWHWI, and I enjoy the idea of this story growing a little into a fully fledged plotline. I hope you enjoy it as much as you did the last one, my friends. There's always something intimidating about adding a second chapter to an initial work, so I hope this is up to par.
> 
> As always, comments, kudos, and feedback of any kind feed not only my tired soul, but my motivation to push out another chapter, regardless of what story it is! <3

\-----

?

\-----

When Ghostbur told him in no uncertain tones that L'Manburg — an odd name for a country in his opinion, but to be fair he didn't even have a name of his own, so his judgement was probably misplaced — had been blown up, he'd imagined something more… On fire, maybe. Something more ruin-like, less new wooden pathways than fire and brimstone. 

That wasn't to say the land looked unscathed, because it definitely did not. The land around them dipped rather violently into a scorched crater, jagged edges and forced steep cliffs that he'd almost stumbled immediately upon seeing. The crater was pretty massive, like a giant had dug their fingers in and scooped it up, a city made a sandbox for cruelty he couldn't imagine. But the crater wasn't _all_ there was, quite a few buildings looked like they'd survived the blast going by the layers of dust, and _that_ was the surprising part. 

Whoever was in charge of rebuilding seemed to have the right of it though. They'd focused less on filling _in_ the hole than they focused on filling the spirit of the space, and he could only assume the old podium — which was, according to Ghostbur, the epicenter of it all — was where the deepest depths of destruction laid, blocked now by large wooden logs and a cheerful set of strange floating lanterns that somehow didn't sway with the wind. He could see scaffoldings connected to it, so it had to be a new addition, but it was empty and bare of any workers.

Now that he was looking, actually, it seemed that there were very few people around at all. Were they in some kind of meeting?

He glanced up again. The lanterns, as he'd thought before, were strangely stable in the air. They weren't tied down or glittering with magic, but they stayed all the same, only bobbing slightly with the wind. 

"They're chinese lanterns!"

Ghostbur chirped in his ear, and he jolted in place, flinched back like he'd been struck by the sound whilst a too-high yelp fell from his lips, and Ghostbur burst into a fit of slightly muffled giggles as his cheeks burned with humiliation. If the horns weren't enough, he sounded like an animal now too? He absently shoved at Ghostbur's shoulder, uncertain of what made him so sure the motion would register. Ghostbur moved just as he thought he would, just barely nudged to the side. It was enough to make him pause in his laughter, at least, and Ghostbur gave him a cheerful smile. Always smiling, his new friend. He wasn't certain why that felt strange. He didn't remember… well, anything, but he thought he knew that friends were meant to smile. 

"Chinese lanterns?" He repeated eventually. Ghostbur shifted where he stood, rocked back and forth on his heels like he had more energy than he could contain. It was an odd dichotomy, the pale and washed out nature of his skin with the energy that buzzed around his head, almost like an omnipresent layer of electricity. 

"Chinese lanterns," Ghostbur confirmed like an old voice box, "Phil and I used to make them, back when I was a kid." 

_Phil._ Yet another stranger he didn't know, yet another name he didn't have. It hadn't been overtly important before but he was beginning to feel a bit left out, what with everything — even the land — having a proper name to call it by. 

It wasn't even the act of not having a name that bothered him, if he was being honest, and he saw no reason not to be. He felt comfortable the way he was, content to drift slightly behind Ghostbur as they walked down a simple wooden path forged on sturdy oak logs. He would have been fine without one, had he not heard so many things referred to as something specific. But Ghostbur had seemingly gotten his heart set on it, and he only really had one friend. He wasn't about to upset him over something he didn't really care about anyway. 

_(A new concept.)_

He blinked, and paused mid-step, furrowing his brow as he tried to recall whatever it was he was just thinking about. He'd lost his train of thought before he even had a chance to grasp at it's wheels. It was something about identities, wasn't it? The names? 

Right. Names. He needed one, apparently. Maybe having one would help him keep things straight — he couldn't sign a book without one, after all. 

Ghostbur tugged him along and he went without protest, stared again at the lights and the buildings with open intrigue. 

"Some of this stuff looks new," he muttered, "why..?" 

"A lot of this was built _after_ the whole blowing up thing," Ghostbur explained, although it sounded slightly strained near the edges, "like my crane! Did I tell you I built a crane? It's a crane and it's my house. It's very good." 

Ghostbur shifted gears so quickly that he wasn't certain how he kept up, but he was glad he could. He had a feeling that if he tuned out for longer than a moment, he could lose track of the entire conversation; he could miss something vital, like the edge that drifted into Ghostbur's tone whenever he talked about the crater. That was okay. He could help with that, couldn't he? 

"I thought you said you lived in a sewer?" He said, a bit dryly. Ghostbur's expression shifted from slightly dazed to attentive, but the way his irises cleared up to focus on him was enough to compensate for it.

"I do!" Ghostbur agreed, "I do, and it's very unsightly, very unsightly indeed. But the crane is nice! The crane and also my library. Both are good. You should come see them!" 

Ghostbur seemed very sure of that fact, so he acquiesced. A library sounded nice, as long as the water from inside the sewer didn't drench the books or anything. Eventually, after a bit more walking, he caught a glimpse of the crane Ghostbur had been babbling about. And to his credit, it was pretty impressive — it was tall and sturdy, and there was something hanging from the metal chain, like it was frozen mid-build. But the more he stared at it, the more a certain problem wriggled it's way to the surface, tinged with something he easily brushed aside. He was very quickly getting good at that. 

"... How do you build with it?" 

"Hm?" 

Ghostbur tilted his head back, gazed at him with absent grey eyes. He gestured up toward the crane, vibrant blue nearly blinding against his monochrome skin. 

"It can't move like that, if it's your house. And it isn't really over anything that's being built. So..." He gestured vaguely at it again, some half-hearted attempt at emphasis; "what's it for?" 

It seemed kind of pointless, considering that the stage — seating? — below it was already completed, and it was too high to be used to fill in the remainder of the crater. Apparently Ghostbur hadn't thought about that, because his expression froze a bit, like he was placed on physical pause. 

"... Oh look, there's the wishing well!" 

Ghostbur's voice was an octave too high as he tugged the horned man away by the cuff of his blue sleeve, and he had to stifle a laugh into his pale grey hand. He really _hadn't_ thought it through then. 

Apparently he wasn't much better though, because when Ghostbur pushed him a bit toward the wishing well, he was left at a loss. 

"I… um." He squinted at it. There was probably water inside, although he wasn't sure if he'd ever seen anything quite like it before; "I don't have money." 

"That's fine!" Ghostbur chirped with more certainty than he'd expected, "you can pay with smiles!" 

Pay with… _smiles?_

He wasn't sure why the idea sounded so absurd. Maybe because it _was,_ or at least it felt like it was. But then again, he was nameless _and_ memoryless, and he was pretty sure that was enough absurdity to suggest that he wasn't a good judge of normalcy. He crept obligingly closer to the wishing well. 

As he approached he noticed, strangely enough, that there was no difference between the way the grass felt below him or the cobblestone base. It all felt flat beneath his too-fancy dress shoes — seriously, why those with a blue sweater? — with no increments or inclines given between the rocky surface and the seemingly plush green, almost like he was floating just a hair above the ground, and he wondered if that was yet another unforeseen side effect of the whole "being dead" part. Probably. A lot of things seemed to be a part of that. He looked at the wishing well properly for the first time, propped up his hands on the edges and peered down to the water below. His eyes widened.

To his shock, he had a reflection. He was pretty sure ghosts weren't meant to have reflections in stories, although he still couldn't recall a source. Considering that his hands were vaguely transparent at the fingertips though, no matter how solid he felt, it was probably fair to be surprised. 

He had horns, just as he'd suspected, and they curled around his sheep-like ears in grand curves, almost like a crown. His hair was wavier too, almost messy, like someone had just ruffled it. He flicked a bit of hair to the side in an attempt to clean it up, but it bounced right back into place, quietly rebellious. His face was scruffy with facial hair, scratchy against his palm when he reached up to feel it. And all of it, absolutely all of it, save for his vibrant blue, was coated in various shades of grey. 

_You done admiring your reflection?_

"Huh?" 

"I said, are you okay?" 

Ghostbur's voice was tinged with concern behind the smile, and he shook his head a bit to clear the wave of cobwebs. 

"Yeah, I… sorry." 

He wasn't really sure what he was apologising for. When he looked up, Ghostbur was smiling, but the smile looked a little paler at the edges. It gave him a vague sense of understanding, something warm and cold all at once that chilled his blood even as it warmed his chest. Ghostbur looked like he understood, and he wasn't sure if he was happy or upset that he wasn't alone in his befuddlement. 

"I was like that too," Ghostbur said, as if to confirm his unspoken suspicions, "I remembered a bit more than you do though!" He sidled up beside the horned man — apparently ram horned, if he had to guess at a glance — with a gentle smile, the same as the one he'd approached with at the start. Ghostbur peeked down into the water, so still it almost looked like glass. "Strange to see your face, isn't it? Is it what you expected?" 

Ghostbur peered back up at him with eyes that looked more like smears of coal than irises, and he wondered why he didn't feel unsettled by it. 

He shrugged. 

"It's okay," he admitted, "I didn't really know what I looked like." 

It was the truth. Honestly, save for the most minor of details — the presence of horns, the scratch of facial hair — he really had no reference point as to what he could be. He couldn't decide if it helped his dilemma as to why he had a comfortable blue sweater mixed with formal dress shoes. The face in the water that mirrored his movements seemed like it could go either way. Ghostbur patted the side of the well, tapped his fingernails against the wood-grain with a hum. 

"That's basically how I felt, so that's good. Or maybe not good. I think it's good, but then again I apparently don't know very much. Tommy says I don't know very much, but he's a child, so I don't listen to him. You should make your wish now!" 

He really needed to ask Ghostbur to slow down a little at some point, because he very nearly missed the expectant cue that had been presented to him near the tail end of Ghostbur's newest tirade. He'd still been near quiet laughter, caught between amusement and wondering exactly who _Tommy_ was when he was nudged, poked gently on his shoulder with a cheerful hand. He realized with a pause that he must have paid Ghostbur's toll, since his cheeks ached a little with the weight of his smile. That too was strange. 

"Do I just… ask it for a name?" 

It seemed a little ridiculous, but he'd do it. It wasn't like it could hurt, after all, and it wasn't like a little punch to his pride would kill him. But to his surprise Ghostbur shook his head. 

"Wishing wells can't talk!" He informed with too much seriousness for the topic at hand, as if the horned man had been the one bringing up nonsense; "you have to ask it for inspiration! Then we can make up something after based on whatever you get. It's wishing well, you know." 

That at least made more sense than expecting a pile of wood and rock to spit out a name like a machine, so he peered down once again at his face. 

When the face he saw in the water smiled, it looked… strange. He wasn't sure why or how, or even _if_ it really did look as odd as his mind told him it did. By all means it was a normal smile, if a bit forced, but something unfamiliar and slightly cold whispered words he couldn't quite hear, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to press for more. The origins of whatever whispers sounded off in his ears felt like finality, and he didn't have enough of a memory in him to accept something like that. He pushed it away, and it faded obligingly into nothingness again. Ghostbur thumped him cheerily on the back, and he snapped from his thoughts like the snap of a broken nether portal. 

"Make your wish!" He reminded, not unkindly. It seemed like Ghostbur did everything kindly, and he wondered if there was a reason why. 

Right. The wish.

"I'd like a name," he said aloud, feeling a bit like a child. He paused. 

There were more, he realized suddenly. More words that wanted to fall off his tongue, but they tasted strange. The unspoken words tasted like acid and effort and a strange force he didn't recognize, and he didn't like them at all even though they never actually came into fruition. He swallowed them down instead, hoped they wouldn't make him sick. 

Ghostbur waited patiently by his side, running slightly transparent fingertips alongside the stone brick of the foundation in an absent rhythm. He was waiting for something, and the ram wasn't certain how to give it to him — if he even could. 

They waited there for a little while, silence setting in like the grave. The longer it stretched the more his eyes began to wander, and he wondered faintly to himself if Ghostbur felt the same quiet buzz that he did, almost like his very soul was trapped in a box inside his chest, instead of a heart like it should have been. Did ghosts have hearts? He brought up his hand to his chest absently, shut his eyes and tried to feel for one. There was nothing. No heartbeat. That made sense, he _was_ apparently dead after all. 

(So why did that make him feel so violently uneasy?)

He opened his eyes again, and Ghostbur still did not speak. It was the quietest he'd ever heard his new friend, and he realized with a bit of shock that he must have been doing it on purpose. He must have been trying to give him space to find his name in his wish. The ram wasn't sure how to break it to him that he felt no grand epiphany, had no sudden realization or spark for inspiration that would drag them both to the desired outcome. He still felt the same, emptied out and fuzzy like his very being had been submerged forever in a layer of rippling water. He took a breath, and wondered if the world around him lost any oxygen. 

"..." 

Ghostbur glanced up at him, then immediately looked back down. It made the ram smile a little bit, hidden behind a pensive hand. His friend looked like he was about to burst at the seams, although he wasn't sure if that was the silence or the nature of the situation.

The wishing well, apparently defective, still had yet to do anything at all. He waited, and nothing. Not a ripple in the everclear water. He squinted down at his reflection, searching for an answer he was pretty uncomfortably certain wouldn't come. The longer they waited the more antsy he got — the more the expectations built up, the more the audience would want — and he searched his reflection with a bit more vigor. 

Everything about him was still violently grey, clashing with his blue sweater like cymbals against the silence. Curled horns that curved up around his ears. _Animal_ ears. Brightly dull eyes that flicked to and fro before he could catch the movement. Hair that curled in gentle waves, one particular clump that fell almost like the tail end of a —

_"J."_

It took him a minute to realize the silence had broken. A minute longer — and Ghostbur's wide-eyed joy — to realize he'd been the one to break it. 

"J?" Ghostbur said, voice bright around the question. His eyes were still the smear of charcoal that they had been before, but they were suddenly near vibrant with excitement, and the ram — J? — felt his own smile curl up in reply. When he caught a very small glimpse of it, it looked a little less wrong. The smile grew a little wider. 

"My name is just a letter?" He joked on instinct, "that's different from Ghostbur." 

"Different, yes! But good! I think it's good, because if you were also Ghostbur that would be very confusing. Besides, maybe it isn't spelled like "J", maybe it's spelled J-a-y, or J-a-e, or something else like that!" Ghostbur stuck out his hand with a bright beaming grin, smile blinding before the ram could get a word in. He didn't mind. 

"It's very nice to meet you!" He said, almost sing-song, "my name is Ghostbur, what's yours?" 

After a moment, J laughed aloud. He reached out and slowly took Ghostbur's hand, shook it once with a steadiness that he had no clues to the origins of. 

"They call me J," he said. 

That felt right. He'd been right and wrong before when he'd thought about it; it _was_ nice to have a name. He wasn't sure who "they" were supposed to be though.

"Would you like to see my library, J?" Ghostbur offered, all smiles and second-hand joy, "I have a lot of very good books! And some very bad books too, if you like that sort of thing." 

J wasn't sure exactly what it was he liked books-wise, so he opted just to shrug, to nod and push himself aimlessly off the edge of the apparently-not-so-useless wishing well. Ghostbur's answering smile was bright and joyous, and he dragged J to the base of the crane, talking aimlessly about the book he'd give him, the quill he'd need, all sorts of things that went in one ear and out the other.

J was an okay name, he thought, if a little strange, and he'd already established his thoughts on whether or not he could judge that sort of thing. Anyway, he had to accept it now. He'd need time to think of a proper signature for the book Ghostbur wanted. 

\-----

?

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any theories as to who J and Ghostbur will see first?

**Author's Note:**

> While this fic is not a part of the "What World Have We Inherited" series, I really enjoyed writing it. I may add more chapters to it, just for a bit of angsty fun. If I do, keep an eye out for that <3


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